


those who wear the crown

by Anonymous



Category: The Office (US)
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, vaguely sad i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 05:36:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19202959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: ryan howard, in between spaces.(you try swallowing your pride now, and you can only choke on it)





	those who wear the crown

**Author's Note:**

> i've recently started watching the office and night out made me big sad that's all

new york is lovely in the loneliest of ways, you realize soon enough.

 

it’s romantic, almost. quick, clandestine meetups in the alleyway (but they’re not so secretive really, because everyone knows of them without needing to be told); speeding cars that scream carelessly spent money; glowing faces eclipsed by flashing lights, pushing up to the red-blue-purple ceiling.

 

when you walk down the streets, you think you know the world intimately. your soul tied down to the restless need for destination. like everyone else, you’re racing towards the finish line. the price of this awareness (the awareness of everything the universe could offer you, what a breathtaking notion that is) is the knowledge that you’re on your own. that you _must_ be, to emerge alive.

 

survival is a battle, and you’re at that age where you believe you’re invincible.

 

everyone knows this. everyone _here_ knows this, at least.

 

the moment this thought crosses your mind, you can’t help but think of those back in scranton, and it terrifies you a little. those are people who have settled - that can’t be you. people who answer eagerly to a boss who’s not content with simply stepping past boundaries but intent on smashing through them; who do crossword puzzles to get to five o’clock; who fall in love and decide it’s not too bad to stay. people who are okay with being.

 

more than anything, you want to be someone. you can’t just be a name passed around in office gossip and jokes. what good does that do, except offer them fleeting glimpses of someone you don’t want to be?

 

being more than that means you’ll be enough, right?

 

well, for yourself. because you’re not too sure anyone else cares.

  


 

it’s not necessarily all bad, though. you’re not always alone after long days where you just can’t live up to expectations of who you should be - those days tend to be every single day, actually. it comes with the title and the basic understanding that you’re young and impulsive and a fool.

 

your co-workers are amazing at anticipating your success and wishing for your failure.

 

you have a friend. he shakes his head at impossible deadlines and laughs at the stupid shit you tell him about your old office. a friend like that. sure, you don’t know much about him, but who cares. someone is someone. better than what you’re used to.

 

nights like these, troy leaves the building with you. he pats you on the shoulder, says, “i’ve got something good.”

 

a match made in heaven, you think. you need something good.

 

you tell him, “fuck yeah.”

 

he passes you drink after drink, leads you to the bathroom and shows you how to be happy when everything’s falling apart. you learn happy like this, under his guidance. he’s a wonderful teacher, despite not looking it. you’ve never been this light before.

 

“good?” he asks.

 

you can’t conjure up the right words but your eyes are glazed over and you’re walking in clumsily drawn lines. that means _yes_ , _good_.

 

hours later, you’ll wonder for a brief second if you’re making a mistake. then you think about the exhaustion that weighs a hundred pounds on your shoulders and the papers and calls piling up at your desk, or how it’s you and troy against the world. and you realize if it’s a mistake, it’s inevitable because you can’t walk any other path.

  


 

“this is going to work.” you look into wallace’s eyes as you pass by him at the corridor. you hope it sounds convinced because you’ve been practicing in front of the mirror the past few mornings. you hope it sounds like you get it, that you deserve this place among them.

 

wallace does his half smile. “we’re counting on it.”

 

he says “we” different from michael. which is good. it can’t be bad, that’s what you mean. he says “we” talking about the company and its structure and its money. michael throws out “we” with a touch of familiarity you use specially for family.

 

you nod and slip back into your office. rest your head in your hands.

 

 _we’re counting on it_.

  


 

there are days you don’t want to get out of bed. even when you’re asleep, you can’t get rid of the stares and whispers behind your back. there’s so much you should be it’s consuming your person.

 

you get up.

 

you get up.

  


 

michael leaves so many voicemails in your phone you eventually stop counting them. the others in the office look at you with a bit of pity in their eyes, like they get it. _michael scott_ , they sigh. always that same hard “m” at the beginning leading into the exasperated note at the end, so his last name fades into the air.

 

oh, as if he were that easy to forget.

 

they don’t get it though. no one ever does.

 

in that horrible, invasive way of his, he loves you. he adores you, fawns over you no matter how much you push. you don’t call but he’ll be at the end of the line. months after leaving scranton and the pattern of his breathing continues to haunt you. you can close your eyes and he’ll still be there waiting.

 

what is it about him that doesn’t leave you? what is it about someone like him that crawls under your skin and makes a home there?

 

“ryan!” his unbridled excitement tumbles out of the phone and you’re half tempted to hang up. some tiny being in you that you thought you’ve beaten black and blue holds you back. “my boy’s all grown up now, huh?” laughter. behind it, someone grumbles. probably, you should tell him to shut up and do his work. “heard you were coming to visit!”

 

you are. you tell him that.

 

he starts chattering on about the most inane of things. you’ll hang up soon. you don’t care about what he’s saying, not particularly. it’s always a mixture of something inappropriate and cheer, borderline obsessive.

 

you’re empty but you ache all the same. he speaks with so much fondness it’s drips all over. it’s quite like a game, the way you sit there and let his words wash over you like a fucking tidal wave, like you’re going to drown. as soon as his voice balloons with pride again, you end the call. your throat is lined with something sour.

 

it’s always repulsive to realize how much someone can love you because what kind of person would, willingly.

  


 

you rattle off numbers. they’d be impressive, if only -

 

you keep getting chances to do something. you don’t know what it is that something is, but it sits urgently in you anyway. you keep getting chances to pull back. you hit high.

 

to avoid confrontation with naive parts of you (the parts that tell you to end it before it gets too deep - look! you’re already in too deep! this is where you are! you stand in a grave you dug for yourself and all that’s left is for someone to throw soil on you!) you fall into the luxury of artificial unconsciousness. walk into somewhere dark you can’t get out of. go back for more when it wraps around you.

 

troy makes a sound of approval. it’s nice to get that from someone, at least.

 

it’s the loosest you’ve been in ages. lying takes a lot out of you but it’s so natural at the same time. corporate’s got their claws in your flesh. it’s how it is. you hate it but you need it and you love it but you can’t do it.

  


 

but repetition is a good way of making things meaningless, you learn. you keep doing whatever it is troy gives you and it stops becoming a point of conflict. you keep faking it, then it feels like it isn’t fake anymore. you lie and lie and lie and it means _nothing_. you don’t seem to care as much as you did before.

 

you get up.

 

you get up.

 

you get up.

  


 

everything’s blurry. there are two guys holding you by your arms.

 

troy’s footsteps grow softer. he must be running away. he screams, “don’t bring him to the hospital!”

 

in your head, a million different scenarios, and they play out like a movie. it’s like the kind of storybooks you used to read when you were a kid, the ones where you could choose your own destiny. what the streets look like. what you look like.

 

troy doesn’t come back in any of them.

  


 

now, you don’t oscillate wildly between shame and glory. even that’s too simple for you. no, you somehow manage to experience them simultaneously, in a rush of bitterness and bone-shattering pain. like you put yourself on stage under the spotlight and let everyone watch you rip into yourself. blood running down the stairs in dark rivulets. your knees sinking into the ground. the audience silent in horror.

 

it’s _performative_. it’s about owning it. your script, your direction, your action.

 

it’s _grotesque_. and the curtains are closing. and you’re there, waiting, toeing the line between life and death.

 

can you pull this off? you don’t know.

 

how long can this last? you don’t know.

 

who’ll be there when everything crumbles to dust? you don’t know.

 

you can only be certain of two things.

 

one: there’s no happy ending where you’re going.

 

two: it doesn’t matter because you’re going to try chasing one anyway.

  


 

 _wake up_ , you think.

 

so bad news. this is the real world.

  


 

kingdoms built on nothing but fresh lies and desperate dreams become acquainted with ashes in the end. the truth comes out, as it does, as it always does. this is your truth: you’re a liar, you lost everything you never had, you want more than you should.

 

you should have swallowed your pride when it was just a spark. you turn on the spot, watch the fire catch onto the pillars and the roof start to fall in. in the middle of it all, you. this is it. this is you.

 

you try swallowing your pride now, and you can only choke on it.

  


 

(after, you keep flashing back to wallace’s face painted with rage in frantic, reckless strokes. his gaze heavy as he looked on, tracking a searing heat across your skin. back then, when you had nightmares of this very instance - and now you think you had been given the chance of looking into the future; fat lot of good that did, huh - you expected shouting and harsh abuse. it’s funny, that the silence says more than anything else could. says _you broke something here_.

 

you know what. sure, you’ve done an awful lot of shit. ambition had twisted itself into selfishness. you’ve lied and cheated and stomped on every good thing that came your way.

 

but then maybe - maybe they broke you first.)


End file.
